summer delivery boy
by Gustava Moliere
Summary: AU. It happens once upon a time in France.
1. Une

Note: I've wanted to write this for a few days now. This is dedicated to you, Zeal.

Plot: He worries about her more than he should.

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_Une_

It takes all his efforts not to scowl down at the smiling customers at the table, all of them smiling like the perfect family they are. He _hates_ it, he _abhor_s it. From the children telling their mother how much they love her and she means to them to the encouraging husband whispering her sweet words in her ear. It takes strength to paste a fake smile and attend the customers without snapping at them telling how much of hypocrites they are.

All of them are pathetic, all this fussing, all this detail for a single holiday. All this preparedness to honor mother's everywhere. "Mother's Day, what a joke," he scoffs, muttering under his breath dropping the dirty dishes down the sink.

Fill, soap, scrub, rinse, wash, dry and stack. He does the process in a heartbeat, breathing in the symphony of his task as busboy. A job he hates. A job he curses the day he took it. But he didn't have much of a choice at the time. He needed it badly to pay for his studies, so he figured that day he would have to suck it up and shove it up where the sun didn't shine. He still does.

His only consolation, the only thing he looks forward to is when he goes out doing deliveries for restaurant Le Baratie around Strasbourg. He feels free as he cycles near the Rhine. He enjoys passing by admiring works of art and architecture from those times of yore. He sees it all with astounding wonder. But what he mostly enjoys is checking on a certain someone in Neuhof.

Someone he ran into on his way to Université de Strasbourg by accident when he was running late. A young lady that became one of his dearest friends and someone he cares for an awful lot, possibly more than he should. An unconscious smile appears on his face and he sighs.

"Ye smilin' n' sighin' 'gain, François," someone tells him in broken English.

He tilts his head in annoyance glaring at the small blond peeling the potatoes calmly. "'s none o' yer beeswax, Sanji, and for the last time, sapientone, mio nome is Franco, capisce?"

"Ye are dans l'amour," grins the blond.

"'m not!" he blushes.

"Are too!" argues back the boy.

"S-Shut up!"

Sanji laughs briefly before adopting a solemn expression. He looks hesitant and bites his lip. "Is she okay?"

"I don't know, to be honest, monello," he answers, his shoulders slumping in deject. He hasn't seen her in a while. In fact, he hasn't seen her at all and that worries him. Because he knows what could she be capable of doing.

The blond jumps from the stool he's standing on and looks around. "Ye stay."

A confused look appears on his face. Just, what's going in that little blonde's head? Either he always threatens him to tell on him to old man Zef for the times the deliveries never reach their destiny or he teases him with his l'amour bull.

"Ordre de deux pour la distribution !" someone hollers in French. A discussion soon enough follows and all he can hear is a booming laugh. Then it dawns on him what the boy just did. Sanji comes back with a saccharine smile on his lips.

"You little monello, what did you do!?" He hisses, gritting his teeth. Whatever his fellow busboy said could cost him his job _permanently._

"Not for you, but for the faire mademoiselle," huffs the blonde, feigning hurt.

"If Zef finds out-"

"Ye leave Zef to me," he interrupts him in a determined voice. Unlike François he can take whatever the old man dishes out at him and he's willing to endure it as longest that faire mademoiselle gets something to eat.

"Order to take for le bleu crétin!"

The blue haired man jerks in attention letting out a sigh. That's his cue. A small smile tugs on his face and he ruffles Sanji's hair as he passes by. The blond throws curses at him and he stops on his tracks near the backdoor his head tilting. "Oi, Sanji, grazie."

"Don't break her heart!" he calls out, making the older man almost drop the order and fall from his bicycle. The delivery boy lets out a few curses in Italian and he laughs going back to peeling his potatoes. 'Good luck, ye ingrat,' he wishes the man fervently.

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R&R


	2. Deux

Note: A drabble that turned into a story. I still can't believe it. Yet, here we are.

Plot: He always manages to show up when she most needs him.

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_Deux_

'_Be fine. Please, be fine,'_ he chants over and over in his mind as he pedals through the pedestrian paths of the city. He's worried, anxious, nervous, antsy, edgy and a plethora of feelings he didn't know that existed before. The knowledge that it will take around 30 min. to get to Neuhof doesn't help ease his anxiety either.

"Regardez où vous allez! Merde!" someone yells, making him screech the brakes of his bike making him almost fall from his bike for a second time. At this rate, he'll never make in time to his ragazza russa.

Frankie slightly winces grimacing. He almost ran over Monsieur Patrick, just his luck. "Sorry, pardon, Monsieur Patrick! I-I was just-"

"Chef Patty."

"R-Right, Chef Patty just, uh, err, va faire une delivery," he stammers, trying not to gulp.

Either this encounter will make him kiss his job goodbye or the worst he can get is a string of curses in French. However, much to his surprise the older man gives him one look and waves his hand dismissively, "Allez, allez."

He pedals in less than ten seconds and away from _that_ man. Of all the employees in Le Baratie, the second most intimidating man is him. And he's glad he survived with his self-esteem intact. The busboy tries to focus in the road ahead.

Three minutes lost, three minutes he could've used in advantage to get there sooner. Robin needs him. It isn't some crazy arse assumption or hunch. He _knows_. Otherwise, he wouldn't be going to her in the first place.

Click. Click. Click. That's how the telltale sounds of the bicycle's wheels go by and by. He doesn't know how much time goes. Five minutes, ten minutes, he lost count. All he knows is that he has one goal in mind. _**'Go**__ to Robin in Neuhof.'_

It echoes in his mind over and over. _'Go,'_ it tells him. '_Andare,'_ it says in Italian. _'Vas,'_ says French at last. All of them telling him one thing, he has to get there. Because if he doesn't something _will_ happen. He's aware of that. And so far his hunches have never been wrong.

All he can think about is her rare laugh, the way her eyes crinkle when she's smiles, the sparkle in her brown eyes and just about everything that makes Robin Kolyichna Nikonova unique. A smile threatens to appear on his face and he shakes his head. Dammit, he's way in too deep. Sanji was right when he-

The bike stops. He breathes relieved at last and glances at his wristwatch. "Made it in twenty-two minutes and fifty seconds with eight minutes to spare," he murmurs, glancing at the eerie looking apartment complex. Not that he's counting or anything.

He walks. Click. Click. Click, goes his bike beside him. There's no one around. No one is _ever._ Sometimes there's strange people, sometimes there isn't. It depends on the days he shows up. He stops and leaves his bike parked.

One step, two steps, until he's almost running up the stairs. It's like he's racing for something, although he isn't sure of what. Another stop and he makes his way across the last floor panting. There are two doors, Door 0 and Door 1, each looking innocent beside the other. One belongs to the landowner and the other belongs to Robin.

_Knock. _

_Knock. _

_Knock._

No one answers.

_Knock._

_Knock._

_Knock._

"Ragazza!? Robin!? Oi, it's me Frankie," he announces loudly. Still no one answers. A frown mars his features. She answers, she always _does._ His blue eyes eye the innocent doorknob in front of him suspiciously. His hand reaches for it and it _turns._

Creak. It goes slowly. The room is slightly dimmed as he enters. His heart is pounding and he feels a slight headache coming to his temples. He walks on a daze to her room opening the room without thinking. It's okay. _She's_ okay. All she's doing is sleeping on her small desk.

His hand brushes a few strands of hair from her face and he crouches. "Hey Robin, wake up," he croaks, shaking her awake. She's strangely warm.

Her eyes open tiredly and slowly. Brown eyes regard him quietly and close shut again. "Franco," she speaks on a mere whisper, trying to move almost falling to the side.

"Easy there," he holds her. The blue haired man moves instinctively his arms until she's on a comfortable position. He carries her gently to her bed.

She shivers. "It's so cold."

His hand touches her head and he leans his lips to her forehead, "You're burning up."

It _hurts._ Her head hurts so much he doesn't know why. "Fever," she mumbles, nodding. Everything feels like going around in circles. She can hardly think. And it's cold, oh, so cold her eyes can hardly keep open.

The last thing before she fades to oblivion is someone caressing her face and telling her, "Don't worry, I'm _here._ Close your eyes and _sleep, __**Robin.**__"_

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R&R


	3. Trois

Note: A doze of angst and cuteness.

Plot: He cares for her.

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_Trois_

She opens her eyes in a feverish daze. It's very hot, but at the same time it isn't. A faint noise is heard and she feels something cool press in her forehead. "That should help keep your fever down," someone announces.

Her brown eyes flicker until she sees _him._ "Franco," she breathes his name fervently. A faint smile appears on his face in response.

"How do you feel?" he asks in earnest.

The look of worry reflected in eyes makes her almost smile. "Lightheaded," she speaks in response.

"Famished too, right?" he asks once more, but this time it sounds hesitant. His blue eyes are sharp, waiting for her response and she swallows. He's been such a good friend to her all this time that she doesn't even know anymore how _she_ could deserve to have him in her life. But there are things _he_ doesn't need to _know._

"I'm fine," she looks away, avoiding his eyes. _'Don't query more,' _she begs silently. What's he done for her is more than enough. She doesn't want to be in his debt or keep abusing his kindness. Franco is a good man and he doesn't deserve her hell.

"Mentite," he utters in Italian, making her look at him in surprise. He _knows._

Something in her chest tightens and her eyes almost water. "I don't need your pity."

His mouth sets into a thin line and a hand passes through his hair. "I-It's not pity, dammit!"

There was one part of her that hoped he would distance himself away from her to prevent the heartbreak that would follow. But he kept pushing, kept prodding her to be his friend. He fought breaking all her expectations until she found herself yearning that he would prove her wrong. "Then, what is it, Franco? I fail to understand."

"I care, okay!? Is it so hard to believe, ragazza russa!?" he explodes, standing up.

Her mouth opens, but closes shut. She has nothing to say. He _cares._ It wasn't _supposed_ to be part of the equation. She was supposed to keep him at arm's length. He should've been a mere acquaintance, not a close friend.

A sigh escapes him. "I care for you. Probably more than I should," he murmurs, leaving the room and closing it shut.

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R&R


End file.
